


With Our Eyes Wide Open

by SebaDA



Series: If It Hadn't Been For Love [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Eventual Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Persons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11433963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SebaDA/pseuds/SebaDA
Summary: When he gets back to the room, he finds the boys curled up together. Both entirely too big for that to be any kind of comfortable, but the blatant contentment on Dean’s face prevented him from trying to rouse them from the bed. John remembered humming some dumb pop song that was caught in his head and Sam’s sleepy grunt of disapproval before he dropped off to sleep, crashing into unconscious almost instantaneously despite the ever-present lumps in the couch.In the morning, Sam had been gone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An old draft that finally emerges into the light. 
> 
> Full disclosure, there is no Wincest in this particular fic but it is coming.

Glancing at the door, John fitfully sends a prayer, a simple one of thanksgiving, upwards that Dean made it home from this latest hunt and was snoring softly in the bed beside him. His boy’s gentle breaths rose and fell gracefully as he attempted to reassure himself that his eldest wouldn’t vanish from his sight, wouldn’t disappear out that damn door in the middle of the night. 

This particular night felt heavier than usual, the heat vice-like in its smothering intensity, oppressive as the alcohol sloshed around in his abused stomach. His name spiraling around on the floating dust motes, glaringly obvious even when John closed his eyes. Little Sammy’s birthday, in nine days his son would be twenty-two; all he could manage in the dwindling moments of his sobriety was pray that wherever Sam was he could celebrate it. 

Selfishly though, as he turned his attention back to Dean, John felt the familiar pride sweep his breath away. He knew that the hunting lifestyle left little to be desired, with crippling loss and bludgeoning grief inevitably draining hunters of will, motivation. Nonetheless he’s still grateful that at least one of his sons took to it like a duck to water, clearing through evil and purifying the world like it was his sole commandment from Jesus himself. 

Still, Sam had been so bright. God, his kid, with his sharp little tongue and bright impish grin that brought flashes of Mary back so clearly it ached deep within his chest. Sam had been so curious about the world in a way that had been equal parts endearing and irritating. By age twelve, Sam had begun asking questions that had John cursing his own ignorance for not knowing the proper answers. Whenever he envisioned the proper future for his youngest, he saw Sam with a diploma from one of those prestigious schools, a well-paying, stable job lined up, and a pretty family waiting for him at home. 

Never could John have imagined, predicted a future where Sam just disappeared at eighteen. Four years later, it still made less sense than when it happened. He could practically taste the whiskey he’d been slugging back that night, all the inconsequential nonsense details that solve nothing except to tangle his mind up further. 

He can recall the flirty dash of pink that the sweet smiling bartender had been wearing under her low-riding jeans, the constant looks she had been flashing him despite his grizzled scowl. Can even remember the warm anticipation at the pit of his stomach at the thought of taking her back to her place, the lighthearted simple release that could be found within her floral scented embrace. 

There wasn’t anything in particular though that made him slap his money on the counter and swing his lumbering way to the truck, climbing in with a parting fond thought of the missed opportunity. When he gets back to the room, he finds the boys curled up together. Both entirely too big for that to be any kind of comfortable, but the blatant contentment on Dean’s face prevented him from trying to rouse them from the bed. John remembered humming some dumb pop song that was caught in his head and Sam’s sleepy grunt of disapproval before he dropped off to sleep, crashing into unconscious almost instantaneously despite the ever-present lumps in the couch. 

In the morning, Sam had been gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean perpetually felt restless but it was around Sam’s birthday when his antsy feelings peaked. He needed a hunt, needed four, to keep his mind numb, his body mechanical, his consciousness cottoned from reality. These breathless midnights, with the sticky Midwestern humidity and the stale air of motel rooms clinging to the bare skin of his back, were driving him insane.

His father had been steadily urging him to go out, pick someone up, to relieve this building, binding tension. But the oppressive heat of another body pressed against his made him feel sick to his stomach. Dean wanted to do something but didn’t have the attention span for anything. His muscles practically ached from all his nervous tension.

Same routine every year, and this year wasn’t any different. Dad set his teeth on edge with all the furtive glances and general clinginess. He knew Dad worried one day he would finally break down and take off after Sammy. Sam, he mentally corrected. But he should know Dean had more pride than that.

Sam hadn’t wanted this; he outgrew this life and his family. Some part of Dean sensed what was coming months before Sam walked out, same way that he intuitively knows Sam isn’t dead.

* * *

 Thankfully, it doesn’t take too long for John to find Dean a case and he could have cried in relief. The mindless hours in his Baby hopefully would settle something in him and killing an ugly should ease some of the pressure in his chest.

It was that simple question though, “Do you feel up to it? Need me to come with you?” that had his heart beating heavy, loudly in his ears. His Dad tried to placate him, though his gruff demeanor only served to piss him off.

“Dean, it could be a demon. Could be multiple demons, an infestation of evil. I just want to make sure that you don’t get hurt, that you’re on your game and focused.”

He tries breathing through his nose slowly, counting his breaths evenly and steadily, wiping clean all traces of attitude when he responds, curt, “I’m fine. I can handle this. We’ve dealt with demons before.”

“Never on your own though. I could send backup. Someone you feel comfortable working with, while I’m wrapping things up here.”

“Send Elliot then. I’ll meet him in Charlotte and we can ride into Georgia together.”

Easy acceptance, John nods his acquiesce and Dean claps him on the shoulder once before grabbing his duffel by the side of the bed and walking out of the door. He really shouldn’t get upset with his old man but he couldn’t help but hear the unspoken accusation lingering behind the words. _You let Sammy go. He was literally sleeping in your arms, why didn’t you stop him?_

He heard the words driving away—louder than any of the records he blared, music familiar and expected—and he couldn’t drown out the patronizing looks his father gave him as he barreled down the highway. Those eyes that didn’t meet his very often anymore, cast down in shame at raising a son so inept at protecting those around him, he couldn’t even save his brother from himself. Even when he finally picked up Elliot, those long legs folded up uncomfortably, he couldn’t force thoughts of his baby brother away and that guilt curled low in his stomach wouldn’t dissipate no matter how many miles passed.

Finally a low clearing of a throat, all gentle urging had Dean casting an inquisitive look at his passenger, “What’s up?”

The slow grin, mouth turning up at the corners had Dean looking away watching the road studiously before Elliot spoke up, “Not to interrupt your daydreams, princess. But you mind filling me in on some of the details of the case. Or why I’m even here. I thought after last time you uh, insisted things worked better when you worked alone.”

And yeah, Dean could have possibly said something similar but he shakes his head adding good-naturedly, “It was a simple haunting, easy salt and burn. Plus the wife was totally into me. I didn’t need you stealing my glory.”

“So that’s why I had to come and save your sweet ass, Deano,” and the hand that creeps onto his thigh doesn’t bother him so much. It’s even easier when he glances over and the eyes are liquidly warm, invitingly dark.

Shrugging, he smirks at the man and flicks his focus back to the road dismissively, “I miscalculated, it happens. I had it in hand, just like I could take care of this by myself. Just a few demons raising hell. Little salt, holy water, and Latin, it’ll be handled easy.”

Elliot slouches back against the seat muttering a quiet “Yeah, whatever”, so comfortingly at ease in the Impala that it relaxes some of the tension in Dean’s back. Closing his eyes, he turns the stereo up humming along and leaving Dean to his silent vigil over the road.

Driving into town, Dean stops at the first motel they come to, too tired and road-worn to scout anything nicer out. Elliot doesn’t complain though, just scoops the duffels out of the backseat and dawdles in the parking lot while Dean does the usual dance with the bored receptionist securing a first floor room with two queens. They turn in without any fuss, Dean collapsing on his bed, clothes still on, and passing out with little fanfare.

 

“Rise and Shine, sweet cheeks. We have shit to do baby.” Grunting, Dean rolls over pulling the musty pillow over his head to block out the noise and the cheerily glinting sunlight pouring into the room after the curtains were thrown open.

“It’s too damn early to do anything, El. Go back to bed.

There was a depression at the end of the bed before Dean’s pillow was jerked away and he groans louder. “Dude, have some decency. I drove your lazy ass all the way here. You could at least waited until—

“Dean, someone died yesterday. A girl, just down the way. Throat slit damn near up to her ears. C’mon.”

He sits up, blinking blearily and running a hand through his hair. His thought are still slipping past muzzily and he’s unable to corral them into anything intelligible for a moment. At once, shame at his own ineffectiveness rises like bile in his throat and that years-old weight settles onto his shoulders. A life could have been saved if his exhaustion had been a little less, if his feet moved just a speed faster, if he had been just a hair more capable. “Alright, so we go interview the victim’s family. We need to find out what these sons of bitches want and who they are possessing.”

* * *

 

There is a certain morbid intrusiveness to interviewing a family hours after they found out that their daughter is dead. The couch underneath him is uncomfortably plush, the leather squeaking underneath him every time he shifts and those tiny little noises cut through the mother’s sobbing awkwardly. The husband dully tries to console his wife, a hand held stiffly at her back and Dean doesn’t know what condolences he could possible offer that could ease their burden.

After shaking the proffered hands and thanking the family quietly for their cooperation, silently thanking them for not throwing him out as he asked about any sulfurous smells or unusual behavior from their daughter, he waded back into the soupy outside barely shaded by the think green foliage. Leaning against his car, he stared up at the sky contemplating the lack of leads and sighed in frustration.

“Giving up already Winchester,” Elliot leans next to him, gazing out down the impressive row of houses, lush pampered lawns lined up tidily.

“Of course not. It just doesn’t make sense. The flickering lights, the smells. I mean there are demons here obviously. Then the girl dies. No rhyme, no reason. We have nothing else to go on. How do we find the bastards so we exorcise ‘em, huh?” The more he thinks about it, the more agitated he becomes, uselessness tightening up in his chest.

A warmth spreads as a solid hand lands on his shoulder and he subconsciously leans into the comfort. “We’ll find them. We will save these people, you just have to have a little patience. There’s got to be something. Someone had to have heard something.”

Nodding, Dean stretches lazily and dislodges the hand with a simple parting thought of the implications before sliding into the driver side seat humming, “we could start at the school then and see if any of the teachers noticed anything off.”

 

  The gates, rusty with the inexhaustible wear of teenagers, creaks lazily as Dean swings it open shaking his head with a balefully muttered, “rich kids”. Languid rays from the late afternoon beat down viciously as they crossed the meticulously landscaped grounds. As they idled on the front steps of the school after ringing the bell, Dean supposed they probably should have cleaned up a little more if they expected to pass off as FBI agents to this crowd, yet there wasn’t too much time to fret as the front doors finally pushes open, a homely graying woman waving them inside. Dean smirks at Elliot smarmily as she curtsies to each of them introducing herself as the secretary, Ms. Thompson, before she’s gesturing them further inside her modest-heeled shoes clacked noisily against the pale stone in the entryway.

“So, how can I help you two today?” she ushers them into a small office off to the side of the atrium, “I understand you are looking into the murder of Kacey. The school is committed to helping find whoever is responsible for this heinous crime. But I’m not entirely sure what help I can offer.” After a gesture to wooden chairs, they sink into sitting uneasily.

Dean clears his throat awkwardly, taking in his surroundings briefly before turning his attention back, “My partner and I are, uh, asking questions of anyone who was close to the victim. There aren’t many leads for this case and we thought it might help to have some background on uh…Kacey is it… to help us go on.”

As she situates herself behind a wooden desk tapping filed fingernails against the faux surface, she appraises the men slowly, “The staff isn’t overly invested in the personal lives of the students. Especially since Kacey wasn’t a trouble-making student and there weren’t any problems with any of the teachers. Though I do think she was close to one of the counselors.”

 Elliot cuts in smoothly, “Close to in what way, exactly?”

She emits a mildly alarmed squeak and rushes to clarify, “Nothing inappropriate, I assure you. This school has a spotless record. I only meant that Kacey had a standing weekly appointment with one of our counselors, a licensed child psychologist, Mrs. Cassidy. Mrs. Cassidy would probably know more about any personal problems.”

“So is there any way we could talk to Mrs. Cassidy, is she in now?”

“Oh no,” she shakes her head almost violently with a nervous twitter, “It’s class hours and we can’t have you traipsing through the school, I’m afraid. Our parents pay top dollar for security,” Dean can’t bother hiding a scowl and a mocking wiggle of his head, “But I can give you her card and you can talk to her at her office location.”

Elliot steps in, reaching out to pluck the card from her hand easily and ushers Dean out of the building simply enough. They make a short stop to a burger joint, each laden with a grease-leaking bag of artery clogging food before heading back to the motel.

“So far, we’ve come up with nothing useful. No leads and anyone in this town could be in imminent danger as long as we keep running around with our head chopped off,” Dean bit out, tearing into his burger aggravated and gesturing with his free hand. While the joint boasted having the state’s best burgers, Dean found the beef tasted like ash in his mouth as all of his negativity seeped into his taste buds.

Even the pleasure of a shower with nice water pressure, streams of hot water pounding away the pains in his joints, is dimmed by an increasing helplessness. There were few conciliatory words exchanged either as the hunters went to bed. And even fewer passed as the days stretched on with very few leads.

They talked to the psychologist only to find out that Kacey saw her due to her parents’ recent announcement to separate. There were no obvious enemies that she had, no history of violence. No traces of dabbling in witchcraft that could have gotten her in trouble. Nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

This bar wasn’t all that unusual from any of the others across the country, except for the decidedly unfriendly looking patrons and beefed up rednecks loitering near the bar for any chance to ogle the bartender. The seat under Dean though is startlingly familiar, the leather cracked in places but worn almost completely smooth by use. Still as he squirmed he couldn’t find an arrangement that was comfortable; the incessant motion even bought him the attention of the bartender.

She’s attractive though her smile seemed brittle, pasted on and stretched at the edges but tonight Dean felt similar inside.

The hole that existed there right behind his heart, an infernal gaping maw that threatened to overwhelm him every day finally swallowed up the rest of his mental capacity until he thirsted for a drink so much so that his hand shook. And she brought it just like he needed, whiskey neat, stiff enough to burn the back of his throat. Her hair was dark, not as dark as Elliot’s, long swishing in a way that would look good clenched in his fist. She also kept the drinks coming in a steady stream that made his heart warm in an odd fashion, fond of this small town girl stranded in life naïve and rather lacking in any real importance.

“Hey, chief, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” Those eyes were on him again and despite the resistance tugging him away, leaden in his stomach, Dean leans closer to his partner knocking against his shoulder lightly before shrugging, admitting quietly, words slipping out but almost unbidden, “It’s my brother’s birthday. Sammy will be 22 today.”

Thankfully, Elliot doesn’t try to soften the moment or bulldoze over it with an attempt at humor, just nods sagely rubbing his hand over Dean’s spine, “Does it get harder?”

Now that, interesting question—because each day was infinitely harder than the last though the stifling pressure eased little by little. Hope wavering between fantastical and downright delusional somedays, and others depleting to a stubborn flat line. He doesn’t know anymore whether or not he expects to ever see his brother again.

Tiny quirk, huff of a laugh and Dean turns watching those liquid eyes, the depth of understanding, he blurts, “It’s not as hard to fail as people think. You screw up, you live through the worst possible thing happening to you, and you’re just thankful it didn’t happen sooner.” 

     “But what happened? I mean everyone talked about it and I thought it wasn’t your fault.”

      Scoffing, Dean grips the other hunter’s shoulder before his attention is turned to the TV above the bar. The local news flashes a portrait of a girl and from their seat the low intonation of the newscaster can be heard reporting the death of a girl, barely fourteen years old found dead in the home.

       Shock slacked his facial muscles, his mouth hanging open for a moment before agitation winds up in the pit of his stomach and he lurches off of the barstool with a frustrated noise.

      “Another one! We’ve been here almost a week and the demons managed to kill another girl right under our noses. What the hell are we even doing here because we certainly aren’t doing our job, Jesus?” Dean fumed jerking away as Elliot reached out, his jaw set uncomfortably tight.

     “You can yell at me as much as you need. But it isn’t going to change things. Though it is going to get us thrown out of this bar and apparently you still need a drink.”

Elliot catches the fist before it manages to connect with his face, smiling grimly and shunting Dean away forcefully, shaking his head, “I’m serious brother, cool it.”

Words that were innocuous enough but had Dean almost biting through his tongue as he growls, “Don’t call me that.”

 Stalking out of the door, he slams into the Impala slinking back against the seats unhappily waiting for Elliot to join him as they ride back to the motel silently.

It’s not until John shows up almost nine hours later that they get any real traction on the case. As his father strides into the room, surveying the mass of books strewed about and newspaper articles clipped, tacked to the wall in a solution-less maze, Dean can’t quite manage to stifle the guiltiness tightening up at the back of his throat.

“So what have you found boys?”

 Elliot shoots a look at Dean before assuming responsibility, “Not so much I’m afraid. We’ve combed every resource we could, scoured the town. But asides from the bodies, we have nothing. I’m not so sure this is demons because they sure as hell aren’t doing any demonic things.”

John’s face twists into a grimace, muttering, “Dean, you’ve been here all this time and nothing? Have you tried any salt and holy water tests?”

“Course, sir. Tested everyone who seem plausible and even those who didn’t. We are working with nothing,” Dean sat straight-backed in his chair, military manners easing him rigid. His father nods, not fully convinced of the work that has already been done but not prepared to question it while still weary from driving all night. “Fine, we’ll pick back up in a few hours once I get a bit of shut eye. But I need you two on surveillance for the rest of the night, make sure that nothing happens.”  Two quick, _yes sir_ s and they were out the door.

The early hours after midnight offered enough of a breeze to cool the sweat collecting at the back of Dean’s neck and in the secret crevices of the small of his back. All of the Impala’s windows were open; not safe or cautious in any manner but at this point Dean would take a demon jumping him just to understand who they were up against.

Minutes tick by and Elliot can’t help the drowsy slouch against the seats, letting his eyes blink open slower and slower. Dean claps his forearm hard against his chest and he tilts his face over lazily with a low groan, “So now I’m interesting enough to talk to?”

Mouth quirked up in grim amusement, Dean shakes his head, “Just can’t have you falling asleep on me. We do still have a job to do.”

“Do we, Dean? Is there anything here because I’m starting to think this here is busy work.”

Leaning his head out of the window, he stalls filling the silence before he finally answers, “Dad wouldn’t send me on a dead case and he definitely wouldn’t show up himself if there wasn’t anything here.”

“How do you know he’s thinking straight now though? If you are? It’s hard, and everyone knows how y’all get this time of year.”

Dean shoots him a hard stare, face tightening in warning before switching topics, “If you weren’t sure of this, why’d you take the case? There are others out there who could have done the job, hell who were closer than you were.”

And Dean knew his partner, had witnessed his easy charm and surefooted way with words, Elliot wouldn’t let this conversation die without a fight but Dean held his hand up as a shadow flashed past one of the houses.

For whatever reason this county had made the executive decision, as ill-informed and unhelpful as the hunters found it, to not put in streetlights but rather rely on the dimly-lit gas lanterns in front of each house. From the distance Dean couldn’t make out any distinguishing features, creeping out of the car he follows after the shape as stealthily as possible.

 The houses offered plenty of cover with the looming natural fences. Yet, there were multiple dogs he had to avoid, hopping several chain-link fences. Out of reach of snarling maws, when he finally lands in the yard he last saw movement, dog-free thankfully, he scans the perimeter before heading onto the back porch slipping in through the already open back door.

There on the floor, an elderly women was choking on her own blood and clutching at her chest. Elliot appeared suddenly at his side with a phone to his ear, voice lowly urging for the medical emergency personnel to arrive at the current address as soon as possible. Holding constant pressure against what Dean thought was a stab wound, he waited impatiently, ears straining before he heard the faint wailing of the ambulance but it was too late.

He could tell when the frail body under his stopped struggling for life, the motions of her chest slowing rapidly before finally stuttering to a halt, the body limply settling. Frosted satiny sky-colored curtains fluttered, billowing open as flashes of neon blue and red illuminated the horror lying on the slowly-staining carpet.

“Damn it!” Dean cursed, swiping a bloodied hand across his forehead before gripping Elliot and hauling him to his feet. Despite wanting to offer more aid, cleaning up the crime scene more and giving the body a proper burial to avoid a vengeful spirit, Dean knew there was only so much involvement hunters should have with law enforcement before suspicion is raised. They head out to the Impala easing back to the motel as quietly as they can.

Though the fleeing was slower and non-conspicuous, Dean’s adrenaline raced as he paced the length of the room and tore his over shirt off the heat seeming to constrict his airway. When Elliot hands him a drink, Dean is surprised to see his hands are shaking and he sloshes some of the liquor on his tee-shirt as he knocks it back quickly, spitting out, “I’m a damn worthless excuse for a hunter.”

“Shut up, Dean, there wasn’t anything to be done,” Elliot sighs, sipping slower on his drink and perching on a desk flimsy enough that it’s a miracle it holds his bulk.

“It only had a few minutes head-start on me! And why her, I mean what did it have against grandmas and kids, defenseless victims. I could have found this thing and ganked it. All these deaths are on me. It’s on me,” the words take on a pleading edge and he’s breathing so hard, it could almost be classified as hyperventilating. He’s not the fainting type either but the room spins around and around him, his skin heating up rapidly before cooling to a clammy temperature, and black flecks dance hazily at the corner of his vision. He realizes belatedly that he might be sick and he collapses into a seated position on the nearest bed. 

The steadying, solid presence of the other hunter next to him eases his panic, making it easier as he tries to pull himself together and keep the contents of his stomach where they belong. After a few moments, Dean is being pulled into a rough embrace before he can right himself. “It’s not your fault. Your brother going missin’ isn’t on you. No matter what you tell yourself, everything is not on you.”

He tries to shove out of the arms holding him upright; Dean isn’t, that isn’t what this was about though his protestations are weak when he sighs out, “a woman died tonight.”

But Elliot shushes him quietly in that soothingly, motherly manner he can adopt “People die all the time Dean, and it’s hard as a hunter. You’ve seen things that would put normal people in the nut house. Tonight though, this is about your brother and one day you’ll have to make peace with that.”

He even tilts Dean’s face up to his, that truth slinking past his walls hard-wrought by years of repression and denial. And there’s no other way to avoid it other than pressing his mouth securely against the other man’s, distracting him with a sinful sweet plushness.

A soft drizzle of rain begins, muffling the sounds outside; cars laying on their horns, disjointed blares and bleats jolting over the usual summer orchestra of cicadas, seeming to halt before reaching the dimly-lit atmosphere of the motel room. He’s still trying to mutter out something, a reply or a reason why this wasn’t a decent idea, but Dean couldn’t let him get that out, speak anything else right now so he pressed him onto his back. The room wasn’t overly nice either and the sheets that were bunched under Dean’s hands as he slides himself down Elliot’s body are worn, most likely by people who engaged in similar activities.

A few lights were out, bugging in the back of his mind because he could, _should,_ replace them later on but better yet now they should be flicked off. With the darkness surrounding two bodies and the sharp scent of sex in his nose with firm hands holding him in place, Dean could forget names that matter, could forget anything of import within this moment.

Still, the corners of Elliot’s mouth slope upwards in a defeated show of pleasure, his fingers carding lazily through the soft bristles of the hair at the nape of his neck. “Alright, you got your way. What’re you going to do with me, brother?”

The word slips out coated thickly in rebellious challenge, almost like he wants to start a fight with Dean—tug his words from the deepest rancor-slimed recesses of his soul. Dean just draws a slick wet line with his tongue, bottom lip jutting out serving as a silken reminder of what was on the table.

He gets dragged into a helpless clash of mouths, after a few moments Dean shifted his head so their noses weren’t smashed together at an odd angle. When hands push at his undershirt needily, he accommodates by pulling his tee-shirt off and before he can change his mind he’s being pushed flat onto his back. Though he can freely admit he wasn’t complaining much. Spreading his legs wide enough to contain such a bulky frame strained the muscles in his thighs a bit yet the stretch felt familiar, a time old tradition that made some piece of his heart threaten to splinter shards of half-forgotten sentiments. Dean slings one arm around Elliot’s neck and begs plaintively to be fucked until the material separating them disappears.

At the first tentative finger pressing against his entrances, he bears down into the pressure, noncommittally trying to repress the memories of the last time he had been in this position. The digit slid in without much fuss, two additional fingers stretched him open slowly before he snarked about not being made of glass until the blunt head of his cock nudged against his entrance with determination.

When Elliot finally breached him, his eyes fluttered shut until the entire length was crammed inside him pressing deliciously against long forgotten parts of his anatomy.

The sex was good too, not too rough but not a pandering pace either. Just fast enough to push Dean gently towards the edge, his voice hoarsely pleading to touch himself. It still felt like an entirely until Elliot finally had mercy. Wrapping a strong hand around him, in four long pulls he wrings Dean’s orgasm out of him unhurriedly and unrelenting. As he clenches down, he’s aware of a spreading warmth before Elliot collapses, a steadying solid weight crushing him to the bed as he sinks dreamily into unconsciousness.  


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, Dean struggles awake, dully pleased at the fact that he’s not glued to the bed by dried come. And there’s a surge of fondness because Elliot must have cleaned him off and tucked him under the blanket.

Dean slides out of bed soundlessly pulling on yesterday’s jeans and a tee-shirt lying on the ground. Before he steps out of the door he casts a glance back at the sleeping form suddenly deciding that this could actually be something he could pursue.

He could use a partner, a situation with someone who only expected him to hunt his ass off and to gank the monster; who was accustomed to life on the road already, though Dean knew Elliot preferred to stay down south venturing occasionally to the Midwest; someone who already had an idea of the things Dean had dealt with.

Heading out for breakfast and coffee for the both of them, Dean checked his phone heaving a sigh of relief that he hadn’t missed a call from his dad. Once he made the mistake of missing a call due to a hookup and the corporal reminder of his responsibilities made sure he didn’t forget that lesson anytime soon.

Still, a feeling of contentment flowered lightly in his chest, offsetting any soreness from his dredging up of old memories. The tenderness of his own body serves as a satisfying reminder of last night and as he walks down the thin strip mall to a convenience grocery store, he whistles somewhat off-tune feeling more on top of his game than he had in days.  

           As the grocery store happened to be closed so early in the morning, Dean shrugged and searched for somewhere else to pick up supplies. With a grimace he located a supermarket, one of the ritzy whole food, organic stores and steps into it with an air of someone who doesn’t belong. There’s a faint twinge as he remembered how Sam used to gaze lovingly at these stores and Dean indulged his ridiculous taste for fresh produce every time the money was there.

         Wandering lost like a lamb through the aisles, busily scoping labels and trying to identify the least offensive, edible package, Dean’s attention was caught by an old widower. The town wasn’t overly large and he recognized the stooped shoulders, the grief slowed movements.

His curiosity is piqued for no discernable reason. His feet draws him over to the man in steady movements, gradual enough to appear natural. When he walks up, he wasn’t sure what he was going to ask or even what cover he was going to use but before he reached him there was a shadow at his shoulder and a hand held protectively at the small of his back.

A voice, incomprehensibly deeper than he remembers though as familiar as his own skin, warns low in Dean’s ear, “Not him. He has nothing to do with anything.”

Dean turns, mouth slacked open in shock, “Sam?”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and Comments are love. This fic has the potential to become a full-blown series with multiple installations.


End file.
